


Natural Disasters

by niennatelrunya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Case Fic, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:38:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niennatelrunya/pseuds/niennatelrunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Character studies of the Holmes brothers and John Watson with a brief case fic in the second chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Glaciers and Wildfires

**Author's Note:**

> A Russian translation by JuliUnona can be found here: http://goide.diary.ru/p194456599.htm

The Holmes brothers have sometimes been – not unfairly – called natural disasters, although few have attempted to specify precisely what kind of natural disasters they might be.

This is a mistake. It leaves you . . . unprepared.

 

Mycroft is the elder by seven years, and has always been the – apparently – more placid of the two. Physically, he is indolent in the extreme. He despises any and all forms of physical exertion.

He is also – and this is what people frequently forget – the more intelligent of the two. He doesn’t leap around with his deductions; he doesn’t need to. With a brain like that, other people can do his legwork for him.

Moriarty, in a fit of uninspired insipidity, called him the Ice Man.

He was wrong. Mycroft is not an ice man – he is a glacier.

Glaciers are slow, subtle, patient. They seldom shift more than an inch or two in a year. You can live your whole life next to one and never see it move. It becomes a constant sight in the corner of your eye, so constant that you cease to see it entirely.

And then, suddenly, it is there, on top of you, crushing you. When people think of the destructive power of ice, they remember the Titanic. But the Titanic was just a ship; glaciers crush mountains and carve out valleys. Glaciers change the landscape of the world.

You think they’re slow . . . and then it’s too late to run.

 

Sherlock is the younger and is – on average – barely more energetic than his brother. On average. But he himself has no average, streaking from one extreme to the other – never moving for days on end and then suddenly whizzing about like a gadfly. Twice as annoying and far too quick to slap down.

He has none of his brother’s disdain for legwork. Occasionally, his brother will call him to run around; occasionally, Sherlock will come to Mycroft for insight. And while Sherlock’s IQ may be a few points lower, he also has Dr. John H. Watson – a man worth his weight in gold.

Moriarty, in a fit of unimaginative puerility, called him the Virgin.

This may or may not have been intended as an insult. It doesn’t matter, because Sherlock’s body is nothing more than transport for his brain.

Sherlock is a wildfire.

Wildfires are swift. They can cover up miles in a single day, devouring everything in their paths and leaving behind nothing but ash. They destroy undergrowth – but they leave deep seeds for future, healthier growth. When people think of wildfires they flee in cars and trains, for such fires cannot be outrun on foot. Fires are massively destructive . . . but they are short-lived. There is no patience in a fire, no subtlety. They blaze as hot as the sun and go out – sprinters, not long-distance runners.

But however many you put out, another fire will spring up, eventually.

 

When the Holmes brothers are together, they usually bicker. Perhaps this is childish. But perhaps . . . perhaps, deep down, the brothers know that they must bicker – for united, they are too terrible.

When glacier meets wildfire, neither wins. Boiling water spurts into the air between them – injuring both, but not badly. They can recover. Fire melts ice; ice quenches fire.

But once in a while, once in a very great while, Mycroft and Sherlock turn and stand together. And then if you try to melt the glacier, there is fire in the way, burning you. And if you try to quench the fire, the ice is there, crushing you.

On its own, a glacier can level mountains. On its own, a wildfire can raze villages.

But together –?

Together, they could destroy the world.


	2. Storm Chaser

After all this time, seeing Sherlock work still never fails to amaze me. Occasionally, as I stand back and watch him zoom around the room – prodding books and figurines, examining the victim’s hair, exclaiming about the idiocy of the world in general – I try to predict what he will say. I look at the hem of the victim’s coat and imagine what it might mean. . . .

I’m never right, of course. Years of following Sherlock around, and I’m never right. But then, I don’t need to be. That’s not what I’m here for.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock cried in frustration, leaping to his feet. “Something’s missing. What am I missing?”

“A conscience?” someone offered, to general sniggering. It was a comment that Sally might have made, back when I first met Sherlock. Faces come and go, but Sherlock manages to get on the wrong side of them all, one way or another.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said briskly. “John’s right over there. No. Something else. Shut up. I’m thinking.” He paced the room, hands occasionally grasping at the air, reaching for some elusive clue.

“Can you give me anything?” Lestrade asked wearily. 

“I’m missing something,” Sherlock emphasized. “I know I am. I can almost –” He groaned in frustration. “I wonder – he does owe me. John –” he clicked his fingers at me – “phone.”

“Use yours,” I said.

“It’s in your pocket.”

I sighed and dug out the little rectangle of plastic. It was, in fact, his phone. I handed it over. “Do I want to know what you’ve done with mine?”

Sherlock waved one dismissive hand in the air (which presumably meant that I’d really rather not know) and whipped off a text. Instead of pocketing the phone, he handed it back to me.

As long as I was going to be a portable phone box, I might as well snoop. I accessed his outbox and saw – rather to my shock – that the text was to Mycroft. A brief message: just the address and the words, _What am I missing?_

I’ve . . . never been entirely certain about the relationship between the Holmes brothers. Before Sherlock’s “death,” I had grown almost fond of being kidnapped, when I wasn’t impossibly frustrated. Mycroft and Sherlock are more alike than they frequently pretend. When Mycroft sold Sherlock out to Moriarty – or so I believed – I was furious. But then Sherlock died and that fury died with me. I’ve never been able to help following Sherlock around. With him gone – 

Well. I won’t say Mycroft was the next best thing, exactly . . . but he was, to me. There was something oddly comforting about the way he would glance at me with that same look, that exact same look that Sherlock had in his eyes when he was deep in deduction mode. Mycroft gave me purpose, purpose beyond my medical duties. Purpose only a Holmes could give.

“Sherlock’s last request was that everyone believe him a fraud,” Mycroft told me, not long after Sherlock’s supposed death. “I think we ought to respect that, don’t you?” And then he explained to me about the snipers, about Moriarty’s network, about how with Sherlock not only dead but discredited, they at last had a chance to bring down the spider’s web.

He offered me a job. After all, I had been trained by one Holmes brother. Why let those talents go to waste?

“The defamation need not be permanent,” Mycroft offered, before I left. “When Moriarty’s network is destroyed, there’ll be no need for the truth to remain hidden.”

I almost laughed at that – almost laughed and almost cried. “And – what? The newspapers are already forgetting about Sherlock. It could be months – years –”

“Then I suggest,” Mycroft said, smiling gently at me – a genuine smile, for once – “that you write a book, something to grab the public’s imagination. ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,’ perhaps.”

Three years. Three years – and suddenly, Sherlock was back. Thinner, maybe, but no less bright-eyed. Within hours of his resurrection, he was dragging me off to capture the last of Moriarty’s network, Colonel Moran.

As if he’d never been gone.

In a way, he never had been. Thanks to Mycroft, I had unknowingly spent the past three years as much at Sherlock’s side as ever, guarding his back, keeping him safe.

I don’t know whether the Holmes brothers’ relationship changed during those three years or only my interpretation of it, but I began to see pride in the way Sherlock described his brother as the British Government; I began to hear fondness when he called him his archenemy.

“I thought that was Moriarty,” I said once, about a month after Sherlock had returned.

Sherlock snorted. “He wished. Moriarty was – maybe – temporarily – my nemesis. But archenemy? Never.”

Which was what passes for an expression of deep affection, coming from a Holmes.

Back at the crime scene, Sherlock continued to pace the room, hands flat together and pressed to his lips. Lestrade several times asked him for his deductions, tried to hustle him on so forensics could come it, but Sherlock only flapped his hands at him and demanded silence. “I’m missing something,” he repeated.

Then abruptly, Sherlock froze, head cocked, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. 

I strained my ears and caught the sound of a young man protesting. “Sir, please, this is a crime scene. Sir, I’ll need to see some identifi –”

Mycroft Holmes strolled into the room, furled umbrella swinging in his hand. A young constable – Hopkins, I thought – bobbed in after him, in a helpless flurry.

Sherlock kept his back to his brother, but his lips were definitely twitching.

“Mr Holmes!” Lestrade exclaimed, and I could see the way Donovan and Anderson – not the same two, of course, but the near-replicas which had taken their places four years ago – instinctively turned to look to Sherlock, baffled. “No, it’s all right, Hopkins. I’m sure he has – uh – clearance. Mr Holmes, I didn’t expect –”

Sherlock’s snigger was barely concealed in his hand as he turned to watch the Donovan and Anderson replicas stare at Mycroft in unbelieving horror. Donovan-replica even opened her mouth to say something scathing – _there are two of them!_ perhaps, or, _not another freak!_ But Mycroft’s eyes flicked over her and the words never emerged.

Mycroft gave Lestrade a cursory nod and went to stand beside and a little behind Sherlock, leaning on his umbrella. Sherlock finally deigned to look at him.

“Fifteen minutes, Mycroft?” he said. “Hardly a record. Too busy lazing around your club?”

“Fourteen minutes,” Mycroft said complacently, his pale eyes scanning the room, skimming over the dead woman on the floor.

I’d given the diagnosis, of course, but my services had hardly been needed: five stab wounds in the chest. The knife – of the ordinary kitchen variety, to my eye, and part of the block set in the kitchen – was still sticking out.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said wearily. “I’d really appreciate it –”

“Of course,” said Sherlock – and he was off, spinning out his deductions. Watching him whirl about Mycroft, arms flying, words spilling out, I was struck by the sudden impression that the two of them were like a tornado: Sherlock spinning around and around at a hundred miles per hour, Mycroft utterly still at the eye of the storm.

Which made me a storm chaser, I supposed. Storm chaser, blogger, phone box, and conscience.

“She lived here, obviously,” Sherlock was saying. “Recently moved from Brighton. No family. Wealthy – inherited money, probably from her husbands. Engaged to be married again in, oh, a month, I’d say. Fourth marriage –”

“Fifth,” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock spun to him. “Fourth. Ring, necklace, pair of earrings.”

“Pair? _Really,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then he was kneeling beside the victim, magnifying glass out, minutely examining the emerald earrings. “Not a pair,” he breathed. “Fascinating. Present from her first husband, no doubt, lost one, and another husband –”

“—her third.”

“Her third husband replaced it. Same design, but different jeweller cut the emerald.”

I could see Donovan and Anderson gaping. They had never seen anyone correct Sherlock on a deduction. _No_ one – not without being verbally ripped to shreds for abominable stupidity.

And Mycroft, standing five respectable feet from the corpse, had noticed a miniscule difference in the way two emeralds were cut. And he had been right. And Sherlock had admitted it.

I was grinning now. The Holmes brothers knew exactly what effect they were having on their audience. Of course they knew; they noticed everything.

They always did have a flair for the dramatic.

And they were enjoying this as much as I was.

“Four husbands and one fiancé,” Sherlock was saying. “All of them rich. Husbands all leave her money. No children –”

“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed, examining the tip of his umbrella.

“ _Yes,_ I know, but she’s pregnant. And has an appointment for an abortion. And not her first either –”

“Wait,” Lestrade said, “how –”

“Look around you! No papers, no brochures. First time, you’d think she’d be a little nervous, wouldn’t you?”

“You think her fiancé killed her because she was getting an abortion?” I asked.

“What – and kill the baby, too? Rather defeats the point. No – no, there’s something else going on here, something I’m missing. What? Why would he kill her?”

“Hmm,” Mycroft said again and, for the first time since the deductions had begun, he moved. Propping both hands on his umbrella, he squatted to get a closer look at the woman. Close enough to touch – but he didn’t touch. “How many abortions had she had, I wonder,” he said after a moment, straightening. “Four, perhaps?”

“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Of course!”

“Of course?” Lestrade asked, as confused as I.

“A black widow, Lestrade, a black widow! Your very own serial killer – dead on the floor, already brought to justice! She marries a rich man and, the moment she gets pregnant, kills him and aborts the baby. That’s probably how it started with her first husband – she wants an abortion, he says no, she kills him. Her fiancé finds out, somehow –”

Mycroft was at the mantelpiece now, examining the trinkets there. “She hadn’t always lived in Brighton,” he said. “She grew up in London.”

“The fiancé puts the pieces together, realizes what’s going on – and you end up with a dead black widow with multiple stab wounds.”

“So we find the fiancé –”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped. “A man clever enough to put together something like this, resolute enough to kill her instead of going to the police? You’ll never find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“An unusually resourceful man,” Mycroft murmured.

“Thinking of hiring him?”

Mycroft favoured his brother with one of his best government-issue smiles of semi-benevolent near-omniscience. “Don’t be absurd; he’s not that good. I’m sure you’ll chase him down at the docks. Good day, gentlemen,” he added to the room in general, and strolled off with precisely the same air with which he had strolled in.

Sherlock overtook him halfway to the street, phone in his hands – I hadn’t even felt him pickpocket me – browsing the web for who-knew-what information.

I ran after him, of course; that’s what I do. Storm chasing.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world.


	3. Teddy Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character study of John Watson

Even natural disasters, whether they be consulting detectives or consulting governments, must sleep sometimes. 

During the day, Mycroft Holmes works with people on a macro level, changing the fates of thousands with a stroke of his pen.

During the day (and sometimes substantial portions of the night, and sometimes for days on end), Sherlock Holmes runs around London working with people on a micro level, changing the fates of those around him one at a time.

During the day, John Watson runs after Sherlock Holmes and tries to keep him from getting killed. Now and again, he also runs around after Mycroft Holmes – or, more precisely, is kidnapped, brought to him in a sleek black car to do his bidding, and does any legwork for which the usual minions are incompetent.

John Watson is not a natural disaster. He is a teddy bear.

Teddy bears are . . . small, cuddly, adorable. Teddy bears are what you hold when you are sad or frightened or depressed or simply want some company. Teddy bears are fuzzy and warm and comforting. Teddy bears are eminently huggable.

Teddy bears are . . . bears. Huge, terrifying creatures, some of the largest and most powerful animals on the planet. Some bears – grizzly bears, polar bears – are absolutely ferocious. Bears of any breed are impossible for a human to kill without substantial weaponry. There are very, very few creatures who might be able to take down a bear unaided. An elephant, maybe. Possibly one of the big cats. A venomous serpent. 

Teddy bears are . . . for children. They are like fairy tales (which, when you actually read them, are about treachery and torture and murder). They are like babysitters (whose stories and lessons will never be forgotten, and who will continue to influence the children for the rest of their lives). They are like imaginary friends.

Like any good imaginary friend, teddy bears fight imaginary enemies. And what enemy could be more terrifying, more unbeatable, more impossibly powerful than the monsters under the bed and in the closet and behind the dresser? These monsters have tentacles and claws and venom and ten-inch fangs and scorpion tails and utterly no mercy. Their entire purpose in life is to devour children. No light can banish them; no parent can sense them; no logic can refute them. They are fueled by the most potent force in the universe: a child’s imagination.

This is the monster that teddy bears fight. This is the monster that, night after night, year after year, teddy bears beat . . . until, one day, the child is no longer a child and can no longer sense the monster, and is safe. Then at last, the teddy bear can retract his claws and rest.

Some children never grow up, not entirely. Sherlock is one; that’s obvious to anyone who’s met him.

Mycroft is better at pretending.

Both, after long years huddling alone, can finally sleep safe at night. They knowing John Watson is crouched and prepared – teeth bared, claws extended – waiting for the monsters to come.


	4. Moriarty Wishes He Were a Natural Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty wishes he were a natural disaster.

It sometimes amazes me, looking back over the many adventures I shared with Sherlock Holmes, that the public at large seems to consider Jim Moriarty our greatest adversary.  I mean, yes, he killed people—but fewer than some of the other men we’ve faced.  Yes, he ran a criminal organization—but we took down more than one of those.  Yes, he was insane—but then, most of Sherlock’s villains were.  That’s why he picked them.  That was part of what made them so interesting.

In a way, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  Moriarty did the best he could to set himself up as Sherlock’s ultimate enemy.  He played the media and the people around him and hyped himself as a super villain rather than just a run-of-the-mill criminal type.

But I can’t help remembering Mycroft.

I don’t mean Mycroft as I know him now, as Sherlock’s watchful big brother.  I mean Mycroft as I first met him in that warehouse, so long ago.

I remember a tall man, beautifully and expensively dressed.  His expression was closed, his smile deadly.  He stood in silence and oozed power.  He knew things.  He had my therapist’s notes.  He looked at me and saw truth no one ever had.  He understood me, although he was a complete stranger.  He stood alone, seemingly unprotected, but the hairs at the back of my neck prickled.  I would not have dared touch him.  I knew I would be dead in a moment, if I did.

I was a soldier, and I knew how to deal with fear.  That doesn’t mean I wasn’t afraid.

Mycroft was the first to kidnap me.  Moriarty was the third.  That sort of thing happened rather a lot in those days.

Mycroft had remained a mystery to me throughout our interview, but Moriarty announced himself immediately.  He dressed himself as expensively as Mycroft, but his clothes didn’t quite fit, and he wasn’t quite comfortable in them.  He kept fidgeting and felt he had to announce “Westwood!” to impress us. 

We weren’t impressed. 

I was busy thinking of other things at the moment, but later it occurred to me how pathetic this was.  Moriarty was like a child dressing himself up in his father’s clothes and then trying to impress his friends.  Didn’t he realize that people who were really used to fine things didn’t feel the need to point them out?  Sherlock and Mycroft dressed as well as any men I’ve ever met (I’d never say this to his face, but Mycroft is a bit foppish about it.  So is Sherlock, but I’ve never had any trouble saying things to his face) but they never once brought it up.  It would surprise them to hear it could be brought up.  They dressed that way simply because they thought it was how one dressed.

Fine clothing was normal for Holmes, but Moriarty bragged and preened.  He was like a man who met the queen and tried to impress her by putting on what he believed to be an educated accent—still dropping his Hs but inserting others where they shouldn’t be to make up for it, and thereby making a far greater fool of himself than ever his native accent would have.

Really, that’s what Moriarty was, through and through: a poor attempt to mimic the Holmeses.  Moriarty announced his snipers.  He showed us explosives.  He rhapsodized about his power.  He demonstrated the limits of his abilities, and so sapped our fear.  He capered about like a clown and then screamed at Sherlock to dance for him.  He tried to up the Holmeses’ flair for the dramatic by becoming melodramatic.

And don’t even get me started on those devastatingly idiotic nicknames.

Moriarty tried and tried and tried to be like the Holmes, and the more he tried, the more pathetic he became.  He didn’t understand that Mycroft and Sherlock don’t have to try.  They simply are.

As a villain, Moriarty was a disaster.


End file.
